


Black Swan

by verhalen



Series: Northern Lights [15]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), Star Wars - All Media Types, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Elves Reborn As Mortal, First Meetings, Force Sensitivity, Gen, M/M, MI6 Agents, Magical Realism, One Shot, Past Lives, Prophetic Dreams, Reincarnation, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Soren being Soren, Telekinesis, The Force, UST, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen
Summary: Part of theNorthern Lights'verse.  MI6 gains a new agent with some special talents, and an assignment turns out maybe more favorable than he thought it would be. Or not.
Series: Northern Lights [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300868
Kudos: 17





	Black Swan

**Author's Note:**

> Sören Sigurðsson, Anthony Hewlett-Johnson and Letitia Fetherstonhaugh are my OCs. Nicolae Dooku is an OMC inspired by Dooku from Star Wars. Please refer to my [Transformative Works Statement](https://verhalen.dreamwidth.org/263827.html) for more information.
> 
> **Update December 2020:** For mental health reasons, this fic has undergone minor revisions.

**May 2015**  
_London, England_  
  
  
_I'm being followed._  
  
It was the end of his first week on shore leave, and Anthony Hewlett-Johnson was for once in his life grateful to be doing "normal people things" like grocery shopping, getting his vehicle washed. But he'd started to have an uneasy feeling about an hour ago, and he'd learned well by now to never, ever ignore that feeling. He'd almost died the last time he'd ignored that feeling.  
  
Seeing the same car behind him - same color, same model, same plates - after his first errand stop was a coincidence. Seeing it a third time, a big coincidence. Seeing it a fourth time, now with two very bland cars tailing close by...  
  
_Shit._  
  
It was time for defensive driving. He pulled ahead of two other cars, and kept his eye on the ones that he suspected of tailing him. Sure enough, they were speeding up too.  
  
_Shit shit shit shit shit fuck fuck FUCK._  
  
He went faster. He zipped off the first exit. He thought of what to do and then he decided thinking was his exact problem here. He pulled over. He had perishables in his car that wouldn't survive a few hours for a tow, but that was less important than his life. As he stepped out of the car, he threw his cell phone in the patch of grass on the curb.  
  
He was on foot now, walking into an alley. Not quite running, not yet. He mentally planned his route, crossing over to the next street through the alley. He came out and began to head for the coffee shop a block away. He'd pretend that his cell phone died and he needed to make some emergency phone calls. The emergency part wasn't a lie, anyway.  
  
Just before he could do that, a car pulled out and over, and Anthony watched as two men in suits stepped out, a bald, massive black man and a shorter, wiry Asian, and then there was a blonde woman in a charcoal grey pantsuit and black aviator glasses. "Captain Hewlett-Johnson," she said crisply. "Please come with us."  
  
Anthony wanted to bolt. The woman cocked her head to one side and said, "Pretend you have a choice."  
  
  
_  
  
  
After close to an hour of sitting in a room that looked like a cell except it had a window and he got to sit at a table drinking tea, the blonde woman came back in with a briefcase and sat on the other side of the table.  
  
"Why am I here?" Anthony asked. "Who are you?"  
  
"My name is Letitia Fetherstonhaugh and I work for MI6. And I think you rather know, Captain Hewlett-Johnson."  
  
Anthony had a feeling he did in fact know, but he decided not to admit to anything one way or the other. "Why don't you explain to me, Ms. Fetherstonhaugh."  
  
Letitia Fetherstonhaugh opened the briefcase and a laptop came out. "You were recently in Iran."  
  
"Where I was recently is classified." He didn't care that she was MI6 and technically part of the British intelligence apparatus, he was under orders not to discuss these things.  
  
"You were recently in Iran," Letitia emphasized, opening the laptop.  
  
Anthony was part of the Special Boat Service, commander of a submarine. He'd been on a special, classified mission to intercept a smuggling trade of oil and weapons to Syria. It had been one of the spicier missions he'd been on.  
  
"You see," Letitia said, typing and clicking away, "we created a bit of an incident, here. The Iranians know we sabotaged that tanker, _because they have video footage._"  
  
Anthony tried to keep the iron mask of control, not show any reaction. But he could feel himself starting to sweat. _Oh shit._  
  
Letitia turned over the laptop. A video was now playing. The footage was grainy, but it showed Anthony leading a squad forward. The tanker had been booby-trapped, as if sabotage and intervention had been anticipated.  
  
Anthony had learned at a tender age that he was a special boy, possessed of certain abilities that other children didn't have. He'd also learned that showing them off to try to impress his peers met with fear and hostility rather than respect, so he'd kept them carefully guarded, only using his abilities in the privacy of his own home, alone - and even then, being careful - or in times of absolute, dire need. Unfortunately, in a do-or-die situation there was no room to do anything but react, so despite the risk of demonstrating what he could do in front of his squad, he did it anyway to save their lives and his own. The video footage showed him using telekinesis to shove his men out of the way and redirect incoming projectiles. There was no fucking way he could plausibly deny what was happening, watching it now.  
  
When the video was done, Letitia pursed her lips and folded her arms.  
  
Anthony sat back in his chair.  
  
"So, what," he blurted out. "Is now the time when you take me away and perform experiments on me, or something? After serving my country all these years, as soon as I was out of school, after all the sacrifices I've made, all the times I've put my life in danger -"  
  
"Now is the time," Letitia said, "where I offer you a job."  
  
Anthony blinked slowly. "A... job."  
  
"Yes. You see, Captain Hewlett-Johnson - may I call you Anthony, since we might probably be colleagues?"  
  
Anthony shrugged.  
  
"You see, Anthony... I work for a section of MI6 that technically, on the books, does not exist. But we do exist, and the purpose of our existence is to protect people like you... and protect the population _from_ people like you. Having someone with your set of gifts get captured by an enemy state and put to work for them... well, that could be very bad. And the general populace can't handle the truth that a small segment of humanity can do what you do, and there are some... weird, paranormal things in our world even beyond that. It would create mass civil unrest, the like of which we have never seen before and are not prepared to handle."  
  
"When you say _paranormal_ what do you mean? Ghosts and witches and... _werewolves_ and all of that rubbish?" Anthony bristled, suddenly very uncomfortable. _If_ Twilight _is real I want off this fucking planet._  
  
"No. My section of MI6 has a very... special relationship... with a very special person, who's a bit of an informant, has kept tabs on other special people, who don't know that they're being monitored, because we let them be for now. He has a few aliases, the one you'd know is Ingmar Borovkov."  
  
"...The multi-billionaire, CEO, Ingmar Borovkov. Notorious recluse, no pictures of himself, nobody really has ever seen him or knows anything about him. He's like me?"  
  
"He's like himself. He's not human."  
  
_He's a pain in the bloody arse,_ Letitia broadcasted. Anthony tried not to eavesdrop on other people's thoughts but this one was loud and clear.  
  
Anthony let that sink in, feeling like he was hit by an anvil. "I need a fucking drink."  
  
Letitia got up and hit a buzzer. The bald black man in the suit who'd accompanied her earlier opened the door and peeked in. "Jules," Letitia said, "can you tell Tom we need some, ah, refreshments in here? Thanks." Jules nodded and closed the door again.  
  
"So..." Anthony took a deep breath. "What happens if I say no to your offer?"  
  
"I would rather you think in terms of saying yes. I really don't want to threaten you."  
  
"Well, I'm thinking in practical terms here. I already can't tell anyone outside of my family I'm with the SBS." Anthony felt a tightness in his chest, thinking of his father, who was starting to go. He already wasn't around enough. "If I'm working for something that technically doesn't exist am I just going to... disappear?"  
  
"No."  
  
Then a gangly, pimply, awkward-looking ginger man barely in his early twenties came in with a tray of various alcoholic beverages and snacks. He set it down and left, looking terrified all the way, like he somehow knew what Anthony was.  
  
"Pick your poison," Letitia said, and reached for a bottle of Auchentoshan.  
  
Anthony crooked his finger and a shot glass slid across the table to him. There was no use hiding it now. When Letitia was done filling her shot glass, the Auchentoshan hovered over the table and tipped over to pour his glass.  
  
"As technically my department of MI6 doesn't exist, on record I work for another department of MI6... and I am also listed as an employee of Borovkov Enterprises. So depending on who I have to disclose information to... most of the time they hear I work for Borovkov Enterprises. It would be the same for you."  
  
Anthony considered. "What would you even have me doing, anyway?"  
  
"A lot of things. A... lot." Letitia glanced at the bottle of Auchentoshan again as she drained her glass, and this time Anthony was the one to pour her a shot, the bottle lifting off the table and tipping. "You'll be making very good money now, even moreso than your current salary... and you will earn every single pound." She looked at Anthony and swirled the whisky around in her glass, inhaling deeply before she raised it. "I've familiarized myself with your service record, and I'm impressed. I need a second-in-command, and specifically, someone who can be trained to do my job in case something happens to me, since there is a non-zero risk with the line of work we do."  
  
"And that's just... it. You want me to say yes and go to work for this super-secret branch of MI6 handling cases of people like me, and train to be another you if shit hits the fan."  
  
"Your country wants you to. And I believe your uncle would have wanted that as well."  
  
His uncle Nigel, who had the same gifts - who had died a war hero in the Gulf, sacrificing himself to save his unit. Anthony knocked back his glass, remembering the man who had been more of a father than his own father when he was a child. Nigel was the reason why he'd joined the Royal Navy fresh out of school, in loving memory.  
  
"Well then," Anthony said. "For Queen and for family."  
  
  
_  
  
  
**December 2020**  
_Sydney, Australia_  
  
Anthony made a noise when his alarm woke him up. He'd been up late with his latest conquest, and after Anthony had kicked him out he'd tried to get to sleep but couldn't, laying there in his latest round of existential angst. _I'm too old for this._ At forty, turning forty-one in February, it wasn't that he was too old for sex - his body certainly didn't think so, his libido showing no signs of slowing down with age - but he was tired of the one-night stands, or the fuckbuddy hookups in different parts of the world. He wanted someone to hold at night, someone to wake up to. He wanted to settle down, find a boyfriend, a husband. Of course, he'd been married to his job all this time, and his line of work - first in the SBS, now in MI6 - wasn't exactly friendly to a healthy, honest relationship, or really a relationship in general with the risk it carried, not to mention having to up and travel for work at a moment's notice.  
  
He'd been sent to Australia rather abruptly to help oversee the safe transfer of three paranormals into Sydney. The case file described them as a polyamorous triad, who had recently acquired the twin daughters of a missing person of interest. Such work might not seem like it was all that dangerous or time-consuming, but he had to see to every last detail - setting them up with proper housing, sparing no expense, making sure they had new identification and a paper trail to back it up so they could live a relatively normal life in Australia with employment, schooling and whatever else they wanted to do. And the move had to be carefully guarded - not even the people physically transporting them could be given details on exactly what they were doing. He was stressed out more than usual, pulling out long hours, thus the need to unleash last night. He would be very glad when this assignment was done.  
  
He'd gotten a nap in the wee hours, and it hadn't been enough. He felt like hell, not in the mood to finally meet the people he'd been working so diligently on behalf of the last while. But he had to do it anyway.  
  
He went through his usual morning routine, after morning tea he went for a run even though he was dead tired - the SBS had a very intense fitness regimen that he still continued. He jogged through the park near the flat he was temporarily renting, listening to Jamiroquai on his earbuds, using his other senses to be mindful of his surroundings, who and what was around him.  
  
_Say do you love me_  
_If you do tell me something_  
_And make it true_  
_Do you love me_  
_I need to know_  
_Baby can't you tell me where we're gonna go_  
_Where do we go from here_  
_I've been trying to find out but I'm still some way from knowing_  
  
_It's not exactly clear no no_  
_The love you should be giving me_  
_Is the love you're rarely showing_  
_That's the, that's the way love goes_  
_And where it's taking us well we don't know_  
_So lets move straight on ahead_  
_And tow in the line between us girl_  
  
_I think I'd sooner make this love dead_  
_Than waste all my time on you, yeah_  
_I'm wasting all my time_  
_I'm gonna learn learn learn_  
_That's the way love goes_  
  
It was a song he'd heard at least a hundred times before but now he had a strange sense of foreboding. He chalked it up to residual angst from last night, though he knew of course "just feelings" were rarely "just feelings" in his case.

He spent extra time getting ready, wanting to make a good impression even though this was more of an over-and-done deal. He brushed his teeth, shaved clean with a straight razor, put a little gel in his carefully styled black hair - frowning at the touch of grey that was starting to noticeably creep in - and added contacts to his naturally green eyes instead of putting on the wire-rimmed glasses that he sometimes wore. A splash of cologne. Black tie, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves in the summer heat, black vest, black trousers.  
  
The Borovkov Enterprises processing center where he had the appointment this morning was near Lily Park. He arrived early so he could spend a few minutes watching the black swans, something that usually relaxed him. He'd loved swans since he was a small child. That was one of the good things about this assignment in Australia - swan-watching. Except today. He'd dreamed of swans last night, he'd had another one of those dreams where he had long weird-blonde hair and was poncing about in white robes, way too eager to visit his brother, the blacksmith. Except he didn't have a brother in real life, being an only child. It felt like wishful thinking, always wanting brothers of his own, but it also felt like more, as unnerving as it was comforting, a home away from home in his dreams. He hadn't had one of those dreams in a long time - he wondered why it came back again so suddenly.  
  
He sat in the office and waited, multitasking on his laptop. He _felt_ the first one before he walked in, like the temperature in the room suddenly shot up by ten degrees. Then he looked and his jaw dropped.  
  
He was looking at one of the most delicious men he'd ever seen - six feet tall, pale, slim, broad shouldered. Shoulder-length dark curls showing just the first few threads of silver. A sultry, smouldering look to him, with heavy-lidded, long-lashed brown eyes, a face that was more pretty than handsome, a fine growth of facial hair framing full, pouty lips that looked like they were made for kissing _or sucking cock_. He was wearing faded jeans, Doc Martens boots and a Joy Division shirt, short sleeves revealing flames tattooed on one arm, ocean waves tattooed on the other. He looked like a rock star, moved with fluid sensuality that suggested he'd be a good dancer or good at other things.  
  
Two other men walked in - one close to seven feet, long waves of dark hair to the middle of his back, silver eyes like pieces of a mirror, pale, classic features like a living statue, wearing a Metallica T-shirt and jeans, pushing a blue pram. The other was a well-preserved senior, six-five, olive-skinned, silver-haired and bearded, high cheekbones, patrician nose, intense dark eyes with bushy, angry-looking eyebrows, a sort of elegance to him even dressed down in black trousers and a blue blazer. This was the poly triad of paranormals - Anthony would have paid good money to watch the three of them in bed.  
  
But more than the other two, it was the one with the curls who drew him. And more than anything else, his brown eyes. Soulful. Sweet, a bit sad.  
  
Anthony's mouth went dry, a frisson down his spine.  
  
The one with the curls and the pretty eyes gave him an annoyed look, like he resented having to be here at all - not that Anthony could blame him, they'd been through a bit of a shakeup. _Let's get on with it,_ the man broadcasted. "Jæja?" was what he said aloud.  
  
That was the Icelander. Anthony found his words. "Ah. Yes." He rose from his desk, walked over, and put out his hand. "Sören Sigurðsson... welcome to Australia."

Anthony gave the speech he'd rehearsed, letting them know they were expected to stay in Australia for awhile - small vacations were fine, if they let someone know where they were going. He presented them with their new identity paperwork, the package including access to new bank accounts and credit cards. After the speech, it was his job to take them to the new place. He let them have some time to let it all sink in as he fetched the company van.

Sören rode shotgun, the other two gentlemen in the back. Sören bottle-fed one of the babies. Anthony felt very awkward around children, and yet somehow watching Sören feeding and rocking a baby did not detract from his appeal but made it maddeningly stronger for some reason. Anthony tried to keep his eyes on the road and not steal glances at Sören, but that was getting more and more difficult.

At last they arrived, at the mansion he'd procured for them to be very, very comfortable. Lots of space... not just on their property, but not being right on top of neighbors, which was less likelihood for their gifts to be detected. He was proud of his handiwork, and yet Sören had another annoyed look on his face as they pulled in.

"This is a bit extravagant on the government's dime, já?" Sören's eyebrow went up. "This is, like, ten times the size of what we had in Akureyri." Sören snorted. "I don't know who was the posh twat who picked this out, but..."

"_I am the posh twat_." Anthony felt a prickle of irritation.

_Hi The Posh Twat, I'm Sören,_ the brat broadcasted. "Oh. Well. Sorry." But the way Sören's lips quirked suggested he wasn't really that sorry.

Anthony wanted to forget about it later, but he kept thinking about Sören. The audacity. That sexy accent. Those eyes. Even in the recent grief he'd endured with his brother suddenly going missing, according to his case file, there was still so much life in him. The world seemed to be more colorful and vibrant, pulsing around Sören, because he _burned_.

_And thinking about him like this is playing with fire. Do not._


End file.
